


Consecrator

by Wecanhaveallthree



Category: Warhammer 40.000
Genre: Gen, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-23
Updated: 2020-01-23
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:27:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22374895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wecanhaveallthree/pseuds/Wecanhaveallthree
Summary: A short look into the life of a crewmember aboard a Black Ship, the secretive vessels that gather psykers from across the Imperium.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 15





	Consecrator

Of all the myriad pleasures in the Imperium, Pitt enjoyed brushing her teeth most.

Water was precious aboard a voidship. The clear liquid that came from her cabin’s sink tasted of the journey it had made from the pumps and reservoirs deep in the vessel - metallic, chemical, thrice-recycled. It stung the soft flesh of her mouth if she took too long to swallow. The flavour, when mixed with her tube of clean-all, was the wrong side of rotten fruit.

For all that, she wouldn’t have surrendered that blessed minute in front of the mirror for anything. It was hers, and hers alone. For the briefest of moments, she could have an identity that didn’t end at her dark blue uniform and endless duties. For a small time indeed, the face in the mirror - brown eyes, the short black hair, the faded scars - could belong to an individual, a person, and not a servant of the Throne.

The cabin door’s proximity alert chimed. Pitt packed away her brush and spat the last of her pre-shift ritual into the basin, watching it sucked greedily down the reclamation funnel. It was some other poor soul’s turn.

That was the Imperium for you. It always trickled down…

The chime sounded again. A deep, male voice issued from a vox-speaker above the thick frame. ‘All ready, Consecrator?’

Pitt glanced about the tiny room she called her own. A few open books on a plastek desk. A stiff bed, unmade from where she’d tumbled out of it. Soiled clothes - each the same dark blue as the one-piece uniform she wore, each ringed at the forearms and thighs with low-light bands - littered the chamber’s floor, or hung over the back of a straight-backed chair. Hardly ready for company - not that it mattered. Any further delay and her guest would use their override key to enter, whether she liked it or not.

‘All ready,’ she called back, the vox activating at the sound of her voice. ‘Come in.’

The portal opened, and a short, thin man stepped through. He sniffed, made a face.

‘Legau’s hooch?’ he tutted. ‘I thought you were a woman of taste.’

‘It’s got a kick to it.’

‘Like promethium. I’m tempted to run a sample down to the Biologis and have them analyse it.’

Pitt snorted. ‘Good luck. Where else would he get the gear for the stills from?’

‘And here I was, thinking our Martian comrades were above petty corruption,’ the man chuckled, palming a plate on the wall. The cabin door slid shut behind him. ‘I’ll have to readjust their psy-profiles. Have a seat, Consecrator.’

Pitt sat. The man remained standing, fiddling with a dataslate and stylus, clucking his tongue as he skimmed through a crew manifest. His uniform was of the same style as Pitt’s own, a light grey rather than blue. The lapel over his heart - where a name would go - was faded beyond legibility, if anything had ever been written there, to begin with. His sleeves hitched up as he noted something on the slate, signed with a flourish, then nodded in satisfaction.

‘Sorry to pull you out of rotation on short notice,’ he said. ‘You know how the checks are supposed to be.’

Pitt nodded. She did. They never gave you notice, but you got to feel them coming. She’d been expecting the visit today. The man knew she’d been expecting it. Neither of them would mention it.

‘How’ve you been sleeping?’

‘Well enough.’

‘Dreams? Nightmares?’

‘No nightmares. I dreamed about eating a carrot last week.’

‘Really? Been putting away your rations properly? Any weight fluctuations?’

‘Nothing out of the usual.’

‘Hmm. No hunger pangs? No deviation in normal appetite, looking for new tastes, anything like that?’

‘No.’

The man scribbled on the slate. ‘Hmm,’ he said again. ‘Interesting.’

‘I wouldn’t mind some fresh vegetables, though,’ Pitt replied. ‘Do you remember Meriton?’

‘The, ah… what were they called? The _corlavee_? Delicious.’

‘Delicious,’ Pitt agreed.

The man held eye contact. ‘You’re not supposed to remember Meriton, Consecrator.’

‘Oh.’

‘Do you remember anything else about the planet? The transfers?’

‘Just the veggie. Was it…?’

The question hung in the air for a moment, before the man shook his head. ‘Nothing like that. In fact, it was just before the last wipe. Sometimes things like that bleed over, particularly taste-memory, in my experience.’ He made another note on his slate. ‘No cause for concern, though make sure to report if anything else surfaces. We might have to sequence again, but otherwise, well within the margin of error.’

‘That sounds less than ideal.’

‘Let me worry about that,’ the man chuckled. ‘It’s fine. Always get mem-bleeds on long-serving crew. On the subject, however - have you been seeing or hearing anything? Any hallucinations or unsourced stimula of any kind?’

‘No.’

‘Intrusive thoughts? Self-harm or suicidal ideation?’

‘None.’

The battery of questions was exactly that - an assault. Many were paradoxical or self-nullifying. Pitt understood the thrust: you were supposed to have strong opinions about the unchecked spread of psykers and be opposed to witches in general. But you also needed to indicate that you took responsibility for those in your care, even after stating quite clearly that you considered them nothing more than a resource. The evaluations were looking for the right personality traits that would result in someone eager and willing to go cell-to-cell with a rusty shiv if need be, while also giving their life without question to defend the prisoners.

As a whole, the League of Black Ships demanded the impossible from its crew on a day-by-day basis. Service was, of course, its own reward - but those who thrived in service would find whole branches of their families provided for by Imperial largesse.

If that meant answering a few intrusive questions, so be it.

‘How’s your sex life?’ the man asked.

‘Good enough.’

‘Had one of the roughs blush when I asked the other week.’ The man shook his head in mock disbelief. ‘My jaw dropped. ‘What?’ I asked him. ‘You didn’t think crewing a maximum-security transport full of witches would have the same effect on your libido as any gilded luxury yacht?’. He’ll come around. They always do.’

‘Not in PA.’ Pitt was firm on that. ‘No prudes in PA. That’s the motto.’

Every human, with the sole exception of the Anathema Psykana and those loosely termed ‘pariahs’ or ‘blanks’, had a connection to the Warp. The crew were all carefully screened to avoid taking aboard anybody with heightened sensitivity - but it was impossible to deny that, being surrounded by miles of psy-dampeners and hexagrammic wards, that even the most feeble connection would be missed.

Gifted conversationalists became awkward aboard the Black Ships. The little gestures, the little signs that one picked up in human interaction - the very building blocks of empathy - were diminished. The connection between people was one of words and physical actions alone.

With that being the most obvious outlet - and with the body’s survival instincts kicked into overdrive by the near-constant danger - fraternisation between crew was common. Every month’s regimen of vitamin supplements and immuno-boosters also came with a course of contraceptives.

Physical bonding between crew was acceptable. Reproduction was not, however much the Imperium wished to outbreed the numerous dangers it faced.

It still wasn’t something Pitt was entirely comfortable discussing the intimate details of, though.

‘What are your thoughts on PA-819?’

She was relieved when the man changed tack. ‘Pyrokine,’ Pitt replied at once. ‘He could be an asset if we can work past the capture-trauma. The key will be using his experiences as an Emperor’s Flame cultist, with particular focus on their rebirth beliefs. My suggestion would be to encourage him to believe he’s now in a new life, that he’s passed trials to be reborn as a servant of the Throne.’

‘And the militia activity? You don’t think that’s a problem?’

‘Not at all. He’s not only a combat-proven psyker, but one who was effective over a long campaign. I’d recommend Inquisitorial service. Long-term control as an untrained pyrokine is rare.’

‘You say untrained,’ the man said, calling up information on his slate, ‘But your report suggests there were other psykers in the Emperor’s Flame. Isn’t it possible he was instructed by a rogue? Or perhaps a more sinister vector - Archenemy infiltrators?’

‘It’s doubtful.’

‘Why?’

Pitt shrugged. ‘In my experience, the Archenemy encourages displays of power and feeds a psyker’s ego. We’d have seen more unbridled use of power at militia engagements if that was the case. I believe that PA-819 surrendered to avoid open conflict - he was likely the instructor himself, though I’m not aware of any other members of the Flame on board.’

‘They’re here, and they sing the same tune. I’m honestly tempted to dispatch the whole litter to Fuernatas for processing. Make a proper cabal out of them. Emperor knows, we need stable psykers now more than ever.’

‘I’d underwrite that recommendation.’

‘Thank you. Is there anything that would prevent you from continuing your work, Consecrator?’

‘No.’ Pitt paused, then spoke her mind. ‘You could have read my report on PA-819. Why ask as part of an official evaluation?’

The man held up a hand. ‘As always, every word of this interview is recorded, Consecrator. Everything is attached to your official file, and as such, it is not my place to comment or speculate.’

‘Ah.’ She understood. ‘Then there is nothing else.’

‘Excellent. You’re good for duty.’ The man signed the slate with a flourish, pressed his thumb on the seal, then turned the device off and return it to its pouch. ‘Off the record, I ask because 819 will need a handler and Fuernatas gets grouchy if we don’t provide a proper liaison. You’ve worked with the man, you have authority he respects, and you’re due a rest rotation regardless - though I can’t promise you’ll get a great amount of relaxation at an Inquisitorial facility.’

Pitt tried to remember the last time she’d been off-planet. She couldn’t. Meriton, it must have been, and that was… she couldn’t say. Time was meaningless in the void.

‘I’ll do it,’ she said, before thinking. Her consent wasn’t required in these matters. ‘Who’ll take over PA?’

‘Last round of interviews,’ the man replied, palming the plate again. The cabin door opened. ‘After today, won’t be your concern.’

‘You’ve already picked Legau.’

‘Well, yes,’ the man turned to leave. ‘But let’s keep that a surprise.’

‘One more thing.’

‘Yes?’ He faced her again, expression carefully neutral.

‘Should I know you?’

A sad smile. ‘No.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘That means it’s working. Take care, Consecrator.’

The cabin door closed behind him with a whisper. As Pitt pulled on her boots and holstered her stun baton, checked her keyring, and ensured all her equipment was accounted for the final shift - she wondered how many times this had happened before.


End file.
